


Just a Memory

by circusgymgirl



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Mother-Daughter Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:09:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24655111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/circusgymgirl/pseuds/circusgymgirl
Summary: When Alexandra Fayra Rivera goes to knock on her mother's door, she recalls a memory from years ago.





	Just a Memory

“Mom,” I say, knocking on her door, “I’m leaving to meet Zoey and Taylor. See you later.”

No reply. Of course there’s no reply. I have no idea why I’m hoping. I stopped hoping years ago. But it’s been almost a month since I saw her. This is the longest we’ve gone without at least seeing each other. And usually we pass each other at least every week or so, saying “hi” in the passing. Occasionally, she’d go further and say, “how are you?” And I’d say, “good. You?” And she’d say, “good” and we’d go on our way. She’d walk down the grand hall to her writing room, and not come out. She’s been in there a long time, though. And maybe she’s come out and I just haven’t seen her. I forgot to put out breakfast all last week, so I don’t know if she came out to eat.

I have very few memories of my mom, and not a happy one I can remember. The one that stands out most happened when I was 11, right after I started middle school. Morgan was over, one of the last people mom had over. Mom was upset.

As a first-week treat, Morgan was going to take me out for ice cream. It was supposed to be a first-day treat, but she’d been busy with one of her clients, so she promised she’d go with me on Friday. When she got here, mom was out of her room. At this point, mom was out of her room more often. She would spend nights in front of the TV, watching her favorite episode of her favorite TV show on repeat for hours. I would sit there next to her as she wrote, getting swept up in the story the first time, and maybe the second time, too. But soon it became old, and I could predict every movement, every line of each character. Yet I sat there until I fell asleep, just to be close to her.

I can still remember that entire episode. I’ve seen it at least a hundred times, and when I’m feeling down I’ll still re-watch it in my head, laughing at the jokes and at the stupid things the characters do, even if nobody knows what’s funny.

I don't know why I remember this day. Maybe because I was excited. The only places I’d really gone for the last years were home, school and Zoey’s. I’d just met Taylor, now one of my best friends, and I was happy.

I’d come home to my mom on the couch, the episode playing on repeat, but my mom wasn’t writing. She was curled up on the couch in tears. She didn’t look up when I walked in. To avoid from shattering my happy, which was already cracked. I walked slowly and silently, pausing at each gasp of breath that lead to a harder cry. I made it to my room without her noticing. I’d breathed out, relieved. I’d dropped my backpack, opened it and dove into my homework. Usually, photography was my escape, I would go out and take picture of kids at the park by my house, or of the house itself. But now, for some reason, that just seemed sad. So I used my homework as an escape. It was a pathetic escape, yes, but it worked for the moment.  
I’d almost finished my homework when the I heard the door open. Morgan! I pushed all my stuff into an unorganized pile, vowing to clean it later when the voice in my head yelled at me to put it away neatly. Then I opened my door, and hurried out to Morgan.

But when I peered around the corner, Morgan wasn’t waiting for me. She was on the couch with mom. The TV was off, and Morgan kept saying, “Rosa, Rosa, what’s wrong? Rosa, what’s wrong?”  
The words still ring in my head when something is wrong. Rosa, what’s wrong? Rosa, what’s wrong? And even though my name isn’t Rosa, when I answer out loud, it always helps. It’s something about Morgan, and the rhythmic motion of those words.

“Rosa, what’s wrong? Rosa, what’s wrong?”

“He’s a stupid, reckless idiot. He torn our family apart, he left my heart bleeding, our heads full of questions. How could he do this to us?” My mom’s voice is hiccupy and hard to make out, but I’ve heard her cry so many times I can figure it out with ease.

This also doesn’t seem like an answer to her question, but my mom rarely makes sense.

Morgan reaches over and rubs her back, smoothing down her wild hair, straightened from its normal blond ringlets, for once. Mom curls up tighter, her voice muffled as she says, “it’s not fair, Morgan. Do something!”

“Rosa, you know there’s nothing I can do,” Morgan says, which just makes my mom wail louder. Morgan looks up and spots me. Her face hardens, just slightly, and there’s also pity in her eyes. She flicks her hand toward me, in a clean, practiced motion, meaning “go away.” Without waiting to see if I go, she turns back to Rosa, her face turning comforting again. “Rosa, it’s okay, he’s not here or affecting your life in anyway anymore.”

I’ve known Morgan forever, she was like a second, stricter mother to me. She and my mom, though very different, had been best friends since they were little. They’re friendship and dynamic always reminded me of my friendship with Zoey, because our friendship is the same way. And when Morgan is here, just to hang out with mom, which was already becoming rarer and rarer, she rarely called mom “Rosa.” She called mom “honey,” “love,” “girl,” and “R.” But when she was here and mom was having one of her breakdowns, Morgan said Rosa in practically every sentence.  
Nobody ever calls her Rose, though. There are a million things like this nobody will explain, like the story behind my name, or her banning me from going to the forest on the southside of town. It’s not like it’s an intimidating forest. If anything, it’s inviting. And perfectly normal, good people hang out there all the time, but my mom says it’s a “place of heartbreak,” as if anyone knows what that means.

“But he doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve anything, especially not this.” The wails have subsided slightly, and I shrink back a little, so that Morgan won’t notice me again. A few years before, Zoey came over to my house regularly. Her parents were in the middle of a divorce, and Zoey would take any escape from the fighting she could get. But here, instead of yelling, we got crying. And for me, that was normal. But Zoey couldn’t decide what was worse. As soon as the divorce was final and her dad had moved out, her mom’s house, with it’s peaceful calm became our place, and it’s still our first-choice hangout, if you don’t count the forest behind her mom’s house, with the tree house her brother built there. We were never allowed to go in it when we were younger, but after he left for college, there was no one telling us to “keep out!” so now we use it regularly.

“Why not?”

“Because he just left me and Fayra. He just left us, and even after I let him name her Alexandra.”

“Rosa, her name doesn’t matter. She goes by Fayra, anyway, right?” I go by Fayra for mom. But for everybody else, even Morgan, I go by Alex. I like it better. No reason. It has nothing to do with my dad, I just simply like the name better. But mom doesn’t know that, and she doesn’t need to know that. Because if doing anything, even going by Alex, will hurt her, it’s not worth it. Luckily, her speaking to me, even coming out of her room had become more and more rare, so it’s not hard to hide the fact that I go by Alex.

“Her name doesn’t matter,” Morgan repeats.

“But it’s there. It’s proof I was stupid and naive enough to think he’d come back because of what I let him name our child.”

“And we’ve all been there. But it doesn’t matter. And why’s it coming up now?”

“Because of the movie.” And just like that, mom’s back to hysterics. Damn, Morgan, really? I know you mean well, but you’re really not helping.

“He’s a writer. That’s what draw you to him in the first place. But you knew he was a writer, and you knew he was writing a script. And how else is he supposed to live?” I have to move back into Morgan’s sight line, if she looks up, to hear what she’s saying, but at this point, I don’t care. Something happened, and I want to know what. Plus, Morgan and I were supposed to get ice cream. And I know that’s stupid and petty, but I’m tired of people forgetting about me.

“I don’t care. Writing is my thing!”

“It’s not your thing. You learned from writers, you work with writers, you’re friends with writers. Writing is part of you, and a part of most everyone around you. But it’s not yours.”

Most everyone meaning who? Her publishers and stuff, yeah, but she wasn’t around them. She was around me and Morgan. I didn’t know of anyone else.

“I know,” she moaned, “I know.”

“Do you?” Morgan’s voice was joking now. My mom’s tears were dried so I shrunk back, worried Morgan would catch me.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because you’re being overly dramatic.”

“I’m being dramatic?” Mom points to herself, and I can’t tell if she’s acting or if she’s serious. Acting was never something I’d been good at. I’d acted in one play in elementary school, but I’d been some obscure side character. Still, half the time, with my mom, I was acting. I was acting when I said it was fine that she needed to write and couldn’t be with me. I was acting when I told her I was okay with the fact that she couldn’t chaperone my field trips. I was acting, no matter what, around her, because everything I did near her I had to be sure wouldn’t hurt her.

The problem with mom is anything set her off. I’d mention something that happened and it’d remind her of him. Usually, it was okay. But sometimes, it wasn’t, and still isn’t. That’s when a low place would start. The drinking, the swearing, the crying. Like, a lot. She’d get ticked off at the littlest things, yell at inanimate objects, then fly somewhere for a couple weeks without notice.

I remember, one time, when I was seven, she just left. Left me alone, without anybody to take care of me. I stayed at Zoey’s most nights, or she stayed with me, but it was still the scariest time of my life. And I still partially hate her for it.

“Well, you’re acting like it’s the end of the world but it’s so not,” Morgan said, clearly annoyed, but also joking. I still didn’t really get Morgan. Half the time, she seemed perfectly happy to help my mom out of her moods, half the time she seemed ticked off by them, annoyed that there was no one else to take fix these things.

“It feels like it.”

“Doesn’t everything with you?”

“If one of us is, you’re the dramatic one.”

“I’m the dramatic one, while you’re breaking down over your ex-husband’s movie deal?” I saw my mom smile slightly, the corners of her mouth turning up, but only for a moment.

“God,” she moaned, sitting up and wiping her tears away, “I’m so stupid. Forgive me.”

“Of course.”

Then, like clockwork, they turned back into MorganandRosa, from when they were in high school, again. The TV went back on, and Morgan teased her about being able to watch the same episode on repeat. Mom teased back saying Morgan never really loved anything because she wasn’t able to watch it on repeat. They were pressed together, shoulder to shoulder, laughing, again. Because mom recovered that quickly. But Morgan was the only one that could fix it.

I remember thinking, thank God Morgan’s around. If she ever leaves, mom will get die. Like, actually. Morgan died the next year. And mom did get worse. But she’s still alive, so I guess I can’t predict the future.

But for that day, I didn’t know that. I left Morgan to complain about her husband, and mom to say that at least she has a husband, in good humor about it for these moments. I went back into my room and finished my homework, putting it away neatly because I could.

I’d heard the door open and Morgan say her goodbyes, she and mom laughing at a last joke. I’d lay back on my bed, playing the episode over in my head, laughing at the funny moments. And they were funny. And they’re still funny. But after that day, they became sad, too.

After I’d played the episode over in my head, I’d walked out to see if mom had turned it back to repeat, or if it was still cycling through, but mom wasn’t there. She was probably in her writing room.

It was only then I’d remembered the reason for Morgan’s visit, the ice cream. I’d gone into the kitchen, made some dinner, but didn’t eat it. I’d been forgotten. Like that time, four years before when she left me alone. Or the times she forgot to sign field trip permission slips. Or the time she promised to take me out to eat on her birthday, for years, and never did.

So I stopped hoping. That day, my mom took priority over me. As did she basically every other day. So why hope for a relationship with her, or anybody to choose their promises to me, over something she needs.

Maybe that was a good thing. It saved me a lot of heartache. When I didn’t get into the summer photography program I wanted the next year, or even now, when Zoey chooses her boyfriends over me time and time again.

But looking at the closed door, the sadness of it. Because one person goes in there. One person stays there. Nobody goes in there to comfort her, or talk to her, or make her take a break. Or anything, anything at all. And maybe she’s okay with that. But I no longer am.

So instead of turning and heading out to meet my friends, maybe even go get the ice cream I was denied as an 11-year-old, I push open the door to my mom’s writing room, and walk in.


End file.
